Food, like photography, has always been a matter of presence for me. Not performance presence. What ends up on the plate or inside the frame is never the full story. It’s the result of hours spent observing the way light falls on a table mid-morning, or how a cook’s hands move when no one is watching. I’ve learned that what’s worth remembering is rarely loud; it’s the quiet processes, the repetitions, the small decisions that build something lasting. Whether I’m documenting the act of preparing a meal or the rhythm of a family around a table, I work with the same belief: that memory lives in texture. Not just in how something looks, but how it feels how it moved, how it was shaped, how it was shared. My photographs are not meant to decorate moments, but to preserve the intelligence inside them. The intelligence of craft, of care, of history. That’s the kind of work I’m committed to. There’s no rush here. No shortcuts. Just a commitment to capturing something honest, and offering it back with respect.

I don’t believe in staging reality to make it more beautiful. I believe it already is. A scuffed cutting board, a worn linen towel, the way someone reaches instinctively for salt these are the marks of a lived-in life, and they carry more meaning than any curated set ever could. My role is to notice what others overlook, to honour the details that would otherwise go undocumented. That’s where the truth sits not in perfection, but in practice. Photography, for me, is not about capturing what looks good. It’s about recording what has value. Because one day, when the table is cleared and the light has changed, what remains won’t be the recipe or the plating. It will be the memory of how it felt to be there. That’s the story I’m telling.

Food, like photography, has always been a matter of presence for me. Not performance presence. What ends up on the plate or inside the frame is never the full story. It’s the result of hours spent observing the way light falls on a table mid-morning, or how a cook’s hands move when no one is watching. I’ve learned that what’s worth remembering is rarely loud; it’s the quiet processes, the repetitions, the small decisions that build something lasting. Whether I’m documenting the act of preparing a meal or the rhythm of a family around a table, I work with the same belief: that memory lives in texture. Not just in how something looks, but how it feels how it moved, how it was shaped, how it was shared. My photographs are not meant to decorate moments, but to preserve the intelligence inside them. The intelligence of craft, of care, of history. That’s the kind of work I’m committed to. There’s no rush here. No shortcuts. Just a commitment to capturing something honest, and offering it back with respect.

I don’t believe in staging reality to make it more beautiful. I believe it already is. A scuffed cutting board, a worn linen towel, the way someone reaches instinctively for salt these are the marks of a lived-in life, and they carry more meaning than any curated set ever could. My role is to notice what others overlook, to honour the details that would otherwise go undocumented. That’s where the truth sits not in perfection, but in practice. Photography, for me, is not about capturing what looks good. It’s about recording what has value. Because one day, when the table is cleared and the light has changed, what remains won’t be the recipe or the plating. It will be the memory of how it felt to be there. That’s the story I’m telling.

There’s a kind of silence I chase in my work. The quiet before a dish is touched, the pause between someone reaching and remembering. I’m not trying to capture perfection. I’m chasing a moment that’s already passed one that lingers in the steam rising from a bowl, the soft creak of a chair, the weight of light on skin. Every image I take is an attempt to hold something that can’t be held. It’s not about styling. It’s about staying long enough to see what’s already there.

What I’m building here isn’t just a portfolio. It’s a record of what mattered. I don’t need applause, and I’m not interested in curating a life that looks perfect. I care about evidence—of care, of labor, of presence. The crumbs on a counter after a long meal. The smudge of flour across someone’s sleeve. The way a space holds warmth even after everyone’s left. These are the things that anchor memory, and they’re what I want to give back through my work. Food, photography, memory—they’re all part of the same language to me. A language of staying, of noticing, of telling the truth with a kind of tenderness that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. If these images feel quiet, it’s because I trust quiet. That’s where the story lives.